


Ready! No? Okay!

by chucks_prophet



Series: Ready! No? Okay! [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Castiel is Not Oblivious, Cheerleader Castiel, Cheerleader Dean, Conflicted Dean, Dean is Bad at Feelings, Fluff, Light Angst, M/M, Newsie Benny, Past Castiel/Dean Winchester, Past Relationship(s), Prom, Senior Benny, Senior Castiel, Senior Dean, Teen Angst, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Wrestler Dean, eventual Dean/Benny
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-31
Updated: 2015-12-31
Packaged: 2018-05-10 13:53:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5588461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chucks_prophet/pseuds/chucks_prophet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Holy shit. There, on the sidelines by the blue cheerleader mats, was the subject of his wet fantasies: </p><p>Benny Lafitte, Senior Sports Editor for Lawrence High’s Leopard’s Spot newspaper, parading a black Newsies cap and a thick, black coat with matching suspenders pulled just tight enough over a white, chest-baring long sleeve. Wrapped like a parted tie over his broad shoulders is a strap belonging to a fine-lensed camera he clutches in his hands like an underfed infant. Even from his view at gun range, Dean can spot the overwhelming blue in his eyes. </p><p>He only reminds Dean why he hasn’t spoken two words to the guy outside of a cheer or wrestling interview.</p><p>Or the one where Dean is in love with Benny and Cas does something about it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ready! No? Okay!

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shalinabianca](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shalinabianca/gifts).



Dean bursts through the washroom with a sloppy smile dripping from his mouth. His heart is tearing a shortcut to China through his sported chest, the excess dirt clogging his throat and making it hard to breathe. His arms, glazed in a thin layer of sweat and semen, stick out like two stuffed swine on a spit. His legs, though they’re far from stable, feel weightless as they practically carry him into the showers.

The steam hits his bruised body like an off-key church choir, but the pain is mild compared to what he was dealt earlier. He closes his eyes and turns so his back is facing the shit-stained shower wall. He can’t be sure if he’s humming Boston or Bon Jovi, and he can’t find the will to care.

“Someone’s feeling cocky.”

A chuckle ebbs in the back of Dean’s throat. “A simple _congrats_ would’ve sufficed, Cas.”

He hears the water slosh in sync with Castiel’s high-arched feet. “How was it?”

“Fuckin’ tore my arms out,” Dean groans, then pokes one eye out with a smug grin. “But it was so worth it.”

“So Nick put up a good fight?”

“I’ll say. They don’t call him the Cage for nothin’.” Cas laughs, a rich, infectious sound Dean knows all too well. It’s not unlike his own, which, at the moment, comes out in a staccato. “How was practice?”

“Grueling,” Cas mocks, batting long, sodden eyelashes over dark blue eyes as he reaches for a towel, “everyone wouldn’t stop talking about you. The girls got their pom-poms engraved with your name on them and we all sang Kumbaya until the sun went down.”

“Up yours.”

“That would be a little redundant, wouldn’t it?”

Dean scoffs and allows for one last rivulet of water to fall over his shoulders before he steps out too. Cas is already a step ahead of him, shimmying into his pants and running his face by the mirror. Dean itches at one strand of chocolate hair sticking straight up like Alfalfa, but Cas shrugs on a shirt and pulls his blue beanie over his head, quickly alleviating the problem.

"You better hurry before you miss the bonfire,” Dean jests as he dries his equally disobedient hair despite the scorpion sting that shoots up his arm.

"It's Amnesty International, Dean, we _preserve_ books, remember?" Cas pulls his blue tie over his neck. “So, was he there?” Dean wraps the towel around his waist. Cas snorts, “You have it bad, you know that?”

“Says the guy drooling over April Kelly,” Dean rejoins, pulling on his faded _AC/DC_ shirt. It’s about two sizes too tight since he joined the wrestling team, but it made for a damn good chick magnet (even if said chicks didn’t know a lick of “Big Balls” unless he dropped his pants). “No chance in hell, dude—literally. She’s in _Bible Club_. That’s practically code for ‘No one gets inside me except God’.”

“I could get back into Christianity.”

It’s Dean’s turn to laugh. “I think you got kicked out of that club a long time ago, my friend.”

“Whatever,” Cas grumbles, then: “Word on the street is he’s covering the prom assembly tomorrow.”

Dean’s smile slides off his face like a tortilla on a well-greased pan. “Nope, no—whatever you and the team have scheming in a cauldron bubble, I _refuse_ to take part of.”

“We prefer the term _cooking,_ less scheming, less witchy.”

“Save me some s’mores, would ya?” Dean mumbles as he pulls on his pants and gathers his wrestling gear. But Cas stops his wrist cold and bores into his soul with those ridiculous blue eyes.

“Dean,” he says with the plaintive shake of his head, “please don’t make the same mistake you did with me.”

Dean doesn’t know what to say to that because his chest feels heavier than before and his legs feel like they’re giving out after seventeen years of support. Luckily, Cas relinquishes his wrist so he can finish grabbing his stuff. The Impala isn’t going to crank the AC herself, after all.

“Congratulations, by the way,” Cas calls to the ghost of him.

***

Underneath a blanket of brown hair and bold cheekbones was a devil by the name of Amara Shurley.

Amara is by all degrees attractive with knockers big enough to suffocate a grown man, but Dean isn’t by any degree interested. Despite her eye candy exterior, there’s something about her that repulses him. Perhaps it’s how she crosses her ex’s and o’s talking a little too close to him, laughing on a pitch that would send Adele packing, and eliminating the competition by sending out a death glare to every girl on campus that so much as looked at Dean. Or maybe it’s because she’s the principal’s daughter.

Yeah, that has to be it.

“So, Dean, homecoming is next week…”

“Is it?” Dean asks feigningly, scanning the crowd for anyone who will save him. From his view on center stage, the stands are packed with a thousand dirty cotton swabs, not exactly delimiting his search. The band doesn’t help by playing at higher volume to outrival every gossiping Q-Tip. “I didn’t notice.”

Amara slaps him playfully with her pom-pom with a skittish laugh, “You’re so funny. A handsome guy like you couldn’t possibly forget the sexiest party of the year. C’mon, you have to at least have someone picked to—”

 _Holy shit._ There, on the sidelines by the blue cheerleader mats, was the subject of his wet fantasies:

Benny Lafitte, Senior Sports Editor for Lawrence High’s _Leopard’s Spot_ newspaper, parading a black _Newsies_ cap and a thick, black coat with matching suspenders pulled just tight enough over a white, chest-baring long sleeve. Wrapped like a parted tie over his broad shoulders is a strap belonging to a fine-lensed camera he clutches in his hands like an underfed infant. Even from his view at gun range, Dean can spot the overwhelming blue in his eyes.

He only reminds Dean why he hasn’t spoken two words to the guy outside of a cheer or wrestling interview.

“Dean, are you listening? Dean?” Amara asks from what sounds like a billion lightyears away. But Dean’s feet are moving to the beat of his unsteady heart across the gymnasium.

Suddenly, he’s in the same breathing space as the Cajun Cutie and that’s just plain intoxicating. “H-hi,” he stutters over the noise and confusion. Benny turns around, but before Dean can place his reaction, a familiar arm yanks him in the opposite direction.

“Sorry,” Cas says regretfully, “it’s show time.”

**

“ _Let’s give it up for Lawrence High’s Cheerlea_ —oh, wow, uh—” Principal Shurley’s voice on the mic cuts out, leaving the already awestruck audience to the event taking place on the stage.

Dean tries to find his step as the cheer team sections off boys to girls before they simultaneously jump into double handsprings. He’s only left to gawk because in the middle of the un-choreographed chaos is a four-person totem pole: Donna, Sarah, Lisa, and at the top, Cas, holding a sign soaked in glitter reading:

_Benny,_

_Dean’s just afraid of a little fun,_

_Will you be his plus one?_

Between the deafening rejoice of the crowd—particularly the wrestling team in the senior section, who are channeling their inner Rottweiler—and his entire face turning flusher than a pimple, Dean’s too mortified to notice the overhead screen displaying an equally flushed face. Only, this face belongs to one burly Cajun with an eye for photography, and he’s nodding an over-enthusiastic yes.

And while his arms and legs aren’t threatening to fall off any second, and his body isn’t aching for a shower, Dean’s heart makes it to China and back and a smile drips from his mouth.

 

 

 


End file.
